by Julie Miller
Her hands moved from keeping him at a distance to clutching at his shoulders to winding around his neck and pulling him down on top of her. He braced himself on his elbows, not wanting to crush her. But Laura had other ideas. She bent her knees on either side of his hips. Denim rasped against denim as she cradled him between the warm juncture of her thighs.
“You know, love and friendship don’t have to be mutually exclusive,” she reminded him, stroking her fingers across his chin and jaw.
“I don’t want to analyze this. I just want it to happen. And I pray you won’t regret it.”
“I won’t. I’ll never regret any time spent with you. I know exactly where this is leading, and I want it to happen.”
His shoulders blocked the glow of the lamp, turning her eyes into verdant pools of unreadable shadow. Every cell in his body trembled in hopeful anticipation. “If you’re such a grown woman, Laura Karr, then shut up and kiss me.”
She did.
She lifted her mouth to capture his in a long, leisurely kiss that chipped away at the darkness. A light turned on inside him when her lips parted, invited him to stake his claim.
Conor didn’t waste any time obliging. His fingers fisted in her hair as he thrust his tongue inside to taste her welcoming heat. Her tongue danced alongside his before stroking his bottom lip. Conor mimicked the action with her, pressing, stroking, tasting. He left her lips to kiss the heart-shaped point of her chin, the tip of her nose, a trio of freckles on her cheek before coming back to claim her lips. He skimmed his hand along the curves of her hip and slender waist, bunching her sweater and camisole up beneath her arm. He squeezed a palmful of satin and lace over her lush breast, flicking his thumb over the eager tip. She gasped and her back arched, pushing her breast into his hand, twisting her hips beneath his. The feel of her body in his hands, stretching against his, was so richly, perfectly female that the most male part of him tightened in an instant response.
He trailed his lips along the rapid pulse beating beneath the creamy skin of her neck, lingering on the sexy vibration humming from her throat. He tried to pull her a few inches from beneath him, but her hair tumbled over the edge of the bed. Conor turned, shifting them both lengthwise on top of the quilt before closing his mouth over the hard pearl of her nipple, wetting her through the material, loving the shaky grasp of her fingers in his hair as she held his mouth against her to torment the responsive peak. She whispered his name, gasping against his ear as he turned his attention to the other beautiful breast.
It wasn’t enough. There were too many clothes between them, too many sensations teasing his skin—cotton, denim, the unforgiving metal of his zipper, the scratchy lace of her bra—and none of them were the touch he wanted most. Groaning his unhappiness at leaving her for even a moment, he sat up, his knees still between hers. He pulled the T-shirt off over his head and unsnapped his jeans.
Laura sat up, too, her hands and lips drawn to his bare skin. His flanks trembled at the brush of her fingers. She explored the flat of his back, the breadth of his shoulders, the swell of each pectoral muscle and bicep. She dipped her tongue into the crisp hair dusting his chest and found the responsive male nipple hiding from the cool air. She laved her warm tongue around the taut bead, drawing him to rigid attention. When she sucked him into her mouth, other things sprang to attention, as well.
“Honey...” He tried to slow her down, tried to slow his own body’s response to every eager touch. “Laura...”
Her response was to lift her arms and pull her sweater and camisole off, tossing them into the darkness beyond the bed. Conor’s hands were there to capture the beautiful weight of her breasts when she reached behind her to unhook her bra. When she rose up on her knees in front of him to grasp either side of his jaw and draw his mouth back to hers, he gave up on any idea of slow.
There was too much want, too much need, too many unnamed emotions arcing between them to do anything but race to the ultimate conclusion of their desire. Jeans and underwear went next. There was no talking, little thinking, only feeling as she helped him roll a condom over his straining arousal. Then Conor lifted her, laid her back on the bed and stretched out above her. He drew his thumb across her center, loving how slick and ready she was for him. He did it again, just to feel her knees clutching his hips, just to see the breathless desire for him darken her eyes.
As he positioned himself at her entrance, her head darted from side to side and she giggled. “We’re upside down.”
“We’re perfect.”
“I mean on the bed. Our feet are on the pillows...” Conor slipped inside her and she gasped. He held himself still for a moment, giving her time to adjust to his size, giving her time to adjust to this moment together, and how everything between them had changed. She looked up into his eyes, smiled. Then she hooked her heels behind his thighs and pulled his mouth down for a kiss. “We’re perfect.”
When he moved inside her, she held him to her body and rode the waves of the rhythm he set right along with him. The tension inside her body gripped him just as tightly until she arched beneath him with her release, gasping his name against his skin. He buried his nose in the scent of her hair and followed right after, saying her name, over and over and over.
Afterward, they quickly cleaned up and dressed again before climbing beneath the covers together. He drew her into his arms and she snuggled in, their legs tangling, her head nestling right beneath his chin, her fingers tracing slow, gentle circles over his heart.
He stayed awake several minutes after she dozed off against his chest. He wasn’t ready to believe in tomorrows. But he was holding on tight to this perfect moment. Holding on tight to the woman he loved. If Laura was next on the killer’s hit list, he’d have to get through Conor first.
Chapter Ten
The distant crunch of boots moving through the snowdrift outside the bedroom window woke Conor a split second before the smoke stung his nose.
Adrenaline poured through him, putting every cell on high alert, when an indistinct pair of voices joined the movement outside.
They had company.
Conor wanted another four hours of Laura tucked against his side, her hand resting possessively atop his chest before reality tore her from his arms. Hell, he wanted forever.
But reality was a bitch. And he was a cop.
And he had a woman to protect.
He rolled away from her, picking up his gun.
The voices faded as the men moved on to another location. But a peek through the blinds elicited a silent curse. Despite the dawn’s winter chill, he drew his hand back from the heated glass. The haze in the room was leaking through the melting seams around the window of the old house. The men had poured an accelerant on the siding and wood trim and set it on fire.
Even though Laura was already stirring, he covered her mouth with his hand to keep her from crying out. Her eyes popped wide open at his touch. They were wary, afraid. He gentled his touch. “Get your shoes on and grab your coat.”
With a nod, she scrambled off the side of the bed, sliding her feet into her boots.
She got one tied before the smoke detectors throughout the house started beeping. That meant multiple flashpoints. He’d slept too hard to notice their arrival sooner, but those boys had been busy. They were smoking them out.
“A fire?” Laura tied off the other boot, picked up her coat and go bag, and followed him down the hallway into the living room. “Shouldn’t we get outside?”
He stepped into his boots and shrugged on his long coat. “That’s what they want.”
“Who?”
The crash of breaking glass from the back of the house drove them to the front entryway. “Them.” He stretched up on tiptoe to spy through the glass at the top of the door. “Hell.” He settled back on his heels just as quickly, then pushed her over to the sofa and knelt beside her. “Looks like it’s a party.”
/> More glass shattered, and Laura’s fingers latched onto the sleeve of his coat. They were coming in through the kitchen. Clearly, stealth wasn’t a concern for the two men. Without the walls to muffle them, their hushed voices were quite clear.
“We only have a few minutes ’til this thing flashes over. Where’s the girl? Boss said to check her purse and pockets.”
“Like she’s gonna let us do that without a fight.”
“His orders are not to kill her ’til the drive is in our hands.”
The other man laughed. “He ain’t kiddin’ nobody. He wants that job himself. He had too much fun with the last chick. Split up.”
Conor could see Laura’s brain ticking as her eyes darted toward the sound of the intruders’ voices. Those men knew who’d killed Chloe. He caught her chin with his fingertip and tilted her gaze back to his, warning her to focus. “Survive first, answers later.” His voice was barely a whisper as he slipped his go bag over her other shoulder. There wasn’t time to pull out his backup weapon, so he’d have to make every shot count. “Stay close to the floor near the front door. The fumes aren’t bad here. Wait for me. Don’t go outside until I know it’s safe. I saw a vehicle out front, so we’re surrounded. You’d be walking right into their trap.”
“Surrounded? How many—?”
“Stay put. I don’t want you accidentally caught in any crossfire.”
“Crossfire?” She hunkered down. “What are you going to do?”
“My job.”
Giving her hand a squeeze before he pried it from his coat, Conor left Laura hidden behind the sofa and moved out. The haze of smoke gathering over his head, and the darkness of his familiar boyhood home gave him a temporary advantage over the two men who were relying on flashlights to move through the house.
“Where is she?” one asked. They were in the back hallway now, going from bedroom to bedroom. Conor cut through the family room to head them off.
There they were, moving into the bedroom he and Laura had just occupied. He threw himself back against the wall, tuning his ears to their movements, readying his Glock between his hands. He recognized the two men from the night of Chloe’s murder. Vinnie Orlando’s entourage. More like his keepers. Faceless muscle men paid to do someone else’s bidding. Probably the same two bullish thugs who’d carried away the dead body on the video.
“She ain’t here.”
“The bed’s been slept in. Closet’s empty except for some fancy clothes.”
“How’d they get out?” The man coughed, then swore as a second coughing jag interrupted him. With any luck, they’d succumb to the smoke and fumes of their own making before he and Laura did. “Man, it’s bad in here. No way they went out the front. And we’ve got all the rear exits blocked off.”
The other man was already backing out of the room, on guard, unsnapping the holster on his gun. Luck wasn’t on Conor’s side. Time to move. “Then where’s the boyfriend?”
“Right here.” Conor leveled his weapon at the two men, staring down the sight of the barrel. “KCPD. They call this breaking and entering where I’m from. Put down your weapons. Get on the ground.”
The two men looked at each other, laughed. The laughter set off the closest man into another coughing fit. He braced one hand against the wall and leaned into it, struggling to unhook his weapon from his belt. The second man pulled his gun, but couldn’t fire in the long, narrow hallway without hitting his buddy. Conor pointed his weapon at the first man and pulled the trigger, hitting him center mass. The guy cursed and fell back on the floor. Yet despite the swearing and coughing, there was no blood. “Ah, hell.”
They were wearing flak vests.
That meant he was fighting a different kind of battle. With the first intruder momentarily stunned, down with maybe a cracked rib or two, Conor raced past him, charging the second man as he raised his gun and fired off a shot.
The bullet whizzed past his ear as Conor hit the man square in the gut and tackled him. He lost his gun when they hit the floor, and it became a fight to disarm the other man. He closed both hands around the bigger man’s wrist, banging his hand against the floor twice, weakening his grip on the gun. But the third blow never happened as the man beneath him struck his fist against Conor’s unprotected side, knocking him off and slamming him into the wall. Now his opponent was on top of him, and it took every bit of strength for Conor to keep him from pointing that gun down between them.
Conor kicked up with his knee, nearly flipping the guy off him. But nearly wasn’t good enough. Brute strength wasn’t going to work with this guy, so Conor let go to thrust up with the butt of his hand and smash the guy’s nose. With a yowl of pain and a spurt of blood, he loosened his grip on the weapon and Conor seized the advantage and knocked it from his hand.
At least it was a fair fist fight now. But where the narrowness of the old home’s hallway had helped him a moment earlier, it now worked against him. This guy was twice as broad as Conor, and there was no place to roll away from him and regain the upper hand without putting himself square between Coughing Man, who was still armed, and Bruiser Boy here.
A fit of muted coughing crept beneath the grunts of the fight and the crackle of the growing flames. He wasn’t the only one who’d heard it.
“Get her!” Bruiser Boy shouted the command in Conor’s ear.
His buddy pushed away from the wall and lurched toward the front room. Bruiser Boy shifted onto his knee and stood, pulling Conor to his feet along with him.
“Laura!” Conor tried to warn her. But the split-second shift in focus was the diversion Bruiser Boy needed to plow his fist into Conor’s chin and snap his head back against the wall. The bottom half of his face went numb, while the top half of his skull rang like church bells on a Sunday morning.
“You ain’t savin’ her today, lover boy.” His opponent pulled back his fist.
Conor took another punch to the gut that doubled him over, but he had one advantage Bruiser Boy here lacked: a brain.
The kick to his ribs knocked him down to the floor...where he could reach his gun.
Make that two advantages.
Conor’s fingers closed around the handle of his Glock and he rolled onto his back. He raised his hands and pulled the trigger, firing three rounds up beneath his opponent’s vest. It did enough damage to bring the big man down.
“Laura!”
Without his own struggle filling his ears, he heard the sofa in the front room screeching across the wood floor. Laura yelped, then roared a wordless grunt. Coughing Man was after her. Conor swiped up the fallen man’s gun and tucked it into his belt and staggered down the hallway. Then he heard a threat that turned his blood to ice.
“I’ll kill you for that, you bitch.”
Conor rounded the corner to see Coughing Man nearly doubled over, holding his gun hand down at his crotch. But that didn’t stop him from clamping the other hand over Laura’s shoulder as she tried to get away. Conor raised his gun, but there was no shot with Laura between them. Just as he thought he was going to be witness to the unthinkable, she raised her arms and dropped to her knees. The two go bags she’d been carrying slipped off her shoulders and fell to the floor, throwing her injured attacker off balance. As he tumbled to his hands and knees, she pushed to her feet.
Instead of running toward Conor, she whirled around, snatched the lamp off the end table and brought it down over Coughing Man’s head, knocking him flat on the rug. Conor was there to pick up the gun he dropped and slide between the still man and Laura.
When she raised the lamp again, he caught it with his hand and took the weapon from her. “He’s out, honey.” He tossed the lamp onto the sofa that had been shoved askew in their struggle and wound his arm around Laura’s shoulders, pulling her to his side. “You okay?”
Her fingers latched on to his coat and she nodded. “I’m glad your mom switched to brass inste
ad of glass.”
He smiled in relief, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of her hair. “Me, too.”
A radio crackled to life from somewhere on Coughing Man’s unconscious form. “Hammer. Rico.” It wasn’t a voice he immediately recognized. “Has Wildman been neutralized yet?” Stereo static from the back hallway indicated both men were in communication with someone, probably whoever was parked out front. “Bring the girl to me. I want to talk to her. Hammer!”
Laura pulled away, her tone breathless. “Clever name for a thug.” She coughed. Her eyes were red, and tears ran down her cheeks. His own eyes stung and watered like crazy. The chemical haze was getting thicker. “We can’t stay in here much longer.”
Conor nodded. He needed to set aside his fear for her safety and think like a cop for a little while longer. “This guy’s unconscious. You okay to touch him?” When she nodded, he gave her quick directions while he retreated to the man in the hallway to do the same. “Find that radio and any ID he’s got on him. I want to know who just tried to kill us.”
The bruiser in the back was dead from his injuries. Conor quickly found his radio and a driver’s license that identified him as Don Urbanski. He stuffed both items into his pockets and hurried back to Laura.
She was standing with both bags hooked over her shoulders again, holding out a billfold and two-way radio. “This is Rico Martinelli. Does that name mean anything to you?”
He was more concerned about the smoke filling the space close to the ceiling. Conor pocketed the items and shook his head. Although he admired her strength on every front, he pulled his heavy bag from her shoulder and slung it over his own, ignoring the twinge of bruising around his ribcage. “I’m guessing these guys are muscle for hire. But if we can find out who signs their paycheck—or maybe who bailed them out of prison—then we can find out who’s behind all this.” He folded her hand into his. “We need to go before backup comes to check on these guys.”